


Family

by janemac24



Series: Fic-ception Saga [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Family, Humor, Kind of a lot of shade actually, Shade, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8399287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janemac24/pseuds/janemac24
Summary: Third and final installment of the fic-ception saga, in which Emma and Regina try to live out their "fairytale romance" in the real world.





	1. Don't Make It Weird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amycarey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/gifts).



> It's over a year later, but here is the thing I promised. Please read the two previous works in the series ("Endgame" and "Canon") as well as amycarey's brilliant "Down the Rabbit Hole" if you want any of this to make sense.
> 
> Thanks to Aimee and Onella for tolerating my whining and reading random snippets for me.
> 
> Similarly to the previous fics, Emma's texts are denoted with bold type and Regina's are bold and italic. Please note that this is a fictional story and no resemblance to actual people, places, or things is intended.

In the weeks after his mom starts dating Emma Swan (yeah, they’re definitely dating, no matter how many times his mom throws around phrases like “just friends” and “taking it slow”), Henry finds himself saying "Don't make it weird" so frequently he considers writing it across his forehead. It's not so much that Emma makes things weird: all things considered, her gradual integration into their family life feels as natural as it could. No, it's everyone else that's a problem. For whatever reason, his mom's reentry into the dating world seems to have awakened a sleeping dragon in the form of random acquaintances who can't mind their own business.

 

With his friends, he kind of gets it. When Mamá died, most of the kids in his class had given him a fairly wide berth. At the time, he thought everyone had abandoned him; now he understands that they just didn't know what to say. But Grace was different: the day she accidentally found him sobbing in the supply closet during recess, instead of hurrying in the opposite direction, she'd taken his hand and said, "It's okay to cry, you know. I still miss my Mama, too, but it gets better. I promise."

 

The Zimmers came into his life six months later, when their art teacher, Ms. Ryder, had unknowingly instructed them to make a Mothers' Day card. Nick immediately burst into tears and fled the room, with Ava close behind him. That day, Henry was the one to offer support, and when Nick finally stopped crying, Ava invited Henry over to play on their trampoline.

 

When Miss Blanchard first introduced their fourth grade class to The Queen and the Saviour, everyone enjoyed the books, but for a few of them, the story of Marisol Mendez became something of an obsession, and even without being able to articulate it at the time, Henry knew it wasn't random. Their role-play sessions at recess included Gabriella, whose last name is actually Mendez; Cristina and Rosa Santos, who were in fifth and third grade, respectively, and probably the only Dominican kids within a fifty mile radius; Charlie Lawrence, who used to be called Charlotte; and of course, Henry, Grace, Ava, and Nick: the kids with only one parent.

 

They didn't just love Marisol; they _needed_ Marisol, and in some strange way, they need Emma, too. So, when Grace starts asking his mom all these questions about true love, and Ava makes a point of showing up at his house whenever Emma's around to pepper her with questions about bounty hunting and the merits of vintage leather jackets, and Nick starts referring to them as “Gin and Sal,” he doesn't complain. They want his mom to be happy as much as he does.

 

He's not so sympathetic to the rest of the world, to the people who'd been afraid to talk to him when he used to cry in class and his mom could barely remember how to cook and do the laundry or sign permission slips but who now, apparently, have no qualms about asking him incredibly personal questions.

 

“So, when your mom and her girlfriend go on dates, which one pays? Is one of them, like, the boy?” a kid who used to push Charlie down the stairs asks him one day.

 

“Don't make it weird,” Henry mutters, rolling his eyes.

 

Another classmate decides to inform him, “My parents said that all gay people are sinners.”

 

“Whatever.” (Then he giggles to himself, because, well, the "Sinners" are definitely pretty gay. His mom doesn't find the joke quite as funny as he does, though.)

 

The craziest is when a disheveled man with gray hair and a huge pot-belly -- someone he's seen around town but he's definitely never spoken to before -- approaches him when he's at GameStop with Ava and Nick to tell him, very stiffly, that he finds Regina attractive, and if she ever decides to give up the lesbian thing, she should give him a call. Ava howls with laughter, and Mr. Zimmer takes the guy into the parking lot to “have a word with him.” The red-faced clerk gives Henry a free lollipop.

 

When Mr. Zimmer calls to tell his mom what happened (insisting that she needs to know, despite Henry’s vehement arguments against it), she's in the process of lighting a candle on the dinner table -- they sometimes have candles at dinner now -- and she flies into the biggest rage Henry's ever seen. For a moment, he's afraid she's going to set the whole house on fire. Emma manages to calm her down, though. She's good at that sort of thing.

 

He's thankful Emma's around.

 

But people are still making it weird.

 

Miss Blanchard is awfully worried about the whole thing. “Henry, I want you to know that even though your mother and my roommate are dating, it won't compromise the professionalism of our student-teacher relationship, and if there are any problems at home, I hope you won't hesitate to come to me for help.”

 

Henry just stares. He understands the words themselves, but he still can't figure out what she means.

 

“Whatever happens between your mom and Emma, I don't want you to think you can't talk to me as your teacher anymore,” she clarifies, her hands fidgeting with the tiny bird sculpture on her desk.

 

“Don't make it weird, Miss Blanchard,” he says, groaning.

 

At his weekly therapy session, Dr. Hopper brings it up first. “How are you handling your mom's new relationship?” he asks, making a moment of awkward silence even more awkward.

 

Shrugging one shoulder, Henry replies, “What's there to handle? My mom's happy. Emma's nice.” He wonders how Dr. Hopper had even found out about Emma. Had his mom called to bring it up? Is she going to therapy again? Are psychologists even allowed to talk about stuff like that?

 

Hopper clears his throat and says, “It's just... I know that sometimes, when parents start dating again, kids worry that the new significant other is trying to replace—”

 

“No,” Henry interrupts. “Don't make it weird.”

 

The idea of Emma trying to replace Mamá is completely ridiculous. Even if Mamá wasn't irreplaceable, Emma hasn't given any indication that she wants to be more than a cool adult playmate to Henry. She's at their house a lot, and she sometimes makes him food and helps with his homework, but in a friend way, not a mom way. She likes the same superheroes that he does. It’s comfortable.

 

Mom sometimes jokes that dating Emma (or “spending time with Emma,” as she’s more likely to call it) is like having another child around, but anyone can see it's been good for her. She smiles more; she talks more. She lets Emma convince her to eat pizza for dinner and leave the house and make funny faces for selfies.

 

But then Mom, like all the others, decides to make it weird, lingering in his room one night after tucking him in, her fingers twisted in the chain around her neck where she wears Mamá's ring. “Henry, is this... is this okay with you?” she asks softly.

 

“What?” he demands, sleepiness making his brain sluggish.

 

She falters for a moment, chewing at her lower lip, before explaining in a rush, “It's just that Emma's been around a lot lately, and it seems like you enjoy spending time with her, but I know this is a big change, and you're used to it being just the two of us, and if it's too much, too soon, I can—”

 

“No, I like having her around,” he jumps to reassure her. “She's cool. You're happier when she's here.”

 

Mom's face falls, and in the moonlight shining through the window, her eyes glimmer with tears as her lips start to tremble. “Henry, don't think--it's not that I wasn't happy when it was only the two of us. I love you. Please don't think you—”

 

“Mom, don't make it weird,” he says, sighing. “I know you love me. That doesn't mean you were happy.”

 

“But I don't want you to think—even if Emma wasn't here, if this doesn't work out, you and me... we'd still be enough.”

 

Henry rolls his eyes and tells her what he assumes she wants to hear. “Of course we'd be enough, but it's fun when Emma's here.”

 

“It is,” she agrees, her shoulders slumping in relief as she exhales. A few stray tears trickle down her cheeks, but he makes a point to ignore them. They're happy tears, anyway.

 

 

***

 

 

The first time Henry saw either of his mothers cry, he was four and his abuela had just died. He had only met her once before, but they'd taken him to the funeral anyway. It was his first time on an airplane, and he wasn't sure whether he was more terrified of flying or the fact that Mamá was crying uncontrollably and wouldn't stop.

 

_“¿Qué pasa?”_ he kept asking Mom. _“¿Por qué está triste?”_

 

She'd just sighed and whispered, “Oh, Henry,” unable to respond.

 

(He didn't figure out until quite a bit later that, as much as she tried to pretend for his and Mamá's sake, Mom was much more comfortable speaking English. Spanish was hard for her: she could never find the right words and then she'd get frustrated with herself for not knowing and furious at her parents for not teaching her, but Mamá would always squeeze her hand and whisper the right words in her ear. When Mamá died, she stopped trying to find the words altogether.)

 

When she finally explained to him that Mamá was sad because her mother died and that meant she could never see her again, he had crawled out of his seat and onto her lap and told her that she and Mamá would just have to live forever, then, because if he never got to see them again then he would die, too, of loneliness. She'd whispered, “Oh, Henry,” again and held him tight against her chest with his head tucked under her chin, and he felt teardrops on the top of his head and wriggled out of her embrace so he could try to wipe them away.

 

Mamá never had a problem with Henry seeing her cry, not that she cried particularly often. “Never try to hide your emotions,” she always told him. “Good or bad, we always want to share them with you.” Everything with Mamá was easy and honest, at least until the brain tumors ruined everything; even as a little kid, he felt like he understood her.

 

Mom was different. Mom _is_ different.

 

Mom is another emotion every minute, always hiding, always layered. Mamá once said that Mom was like the human incarnation of a fire: a flame that shifts from red to yellow to blue and sometimes burns all three: protective and tender and fierce all at the same time. She can be warm and comfortable like a woodstove in winter or powerful and terrifying like a wildfire.

 

When Mamá died, it seemed like the flame that was Mom had been extinguished altogether. Now, two years later, Henry thinks he's starting to see sparks again, tentative but still bright.

 

After Mamá died, Mom started locking herself in her study. She said she was doing work, but he would stand by the door and hear her crying and occasionally breaking things. Back then, he wondered why she always lied, and why she wouldn't let him in. If she let him in, he thought, he could help make it better.

 

Now, he knows it's not that simple, but she’s started to crack open the metaphorical door, and in tentative fits and starts, they're trying to make it better together.

 

 

***

 

 

“But what does a bounty hunter do?” Ava persists, hovering around Emma's elbow while she stirs the pot of chili on the stove. Emma's not exactly a gourmet chef, but there are a few things she can make really well: macaroni, omelets, grilled cheese, and chili. Even though none of the options are very healthy, Mom still loves it when Emma makes dinner (and Henry's certainly not complaining).

 

“I already told you, we track down criminals who jumped bail,” says Emma, whose patience is obviously wearing thin. Her fondness for Henry notwithstanding, she’s really not much of a kid person.

 

“But how?”

 

Emma shrugs, handing Henry a spoonful of chili to taste. “Add more pepper,” he directs.

 

“Damn, you and your mom and your red pepper flakes,” she complains, but she dutifully adds another tablespoon. Turning back to Ava, she explains, “Lots of ways. Sometimes we ask their friends where they might hide; sometimes we go door-to-door looking for information; sometimes we trick them into revealing themselves.”

 

“How do you trick them?” Ava demands. Emma shrugs again.

 

“Depends on the perp.”

 

“Perp means bad guy,” Henry smugly informs her. “It's short for perpetrator.”

 

Ava rolls her eyes and ignores him in favor of Emma. “Are a lot of women bounty hunters?” she asks.

 

“Not really,” Emma replies, “but there should be more. There are definitely a few advantages to having a woman on the team, you know? I mean, we can do everything the guys do, and we can lure the perp out of hiding with a fake account on a dating website.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“She means that the bad guy thinks she's pretty, so she can trick him into going out with her and then arrest him,” Henry explains.

 

Ava looks horrified. “But...but you can't! You're going out with Ms. Mills!”

 

“Yeah, kid, I know,” Emma says, clearly holding back a laugh. “I’m not talking about going on real dates with those guys.”

 

“Dates? Guys? Does anyone want to explain this to me?” Mom says with mock sternness as she walks through the front door. Kicking off her heels, she immediately pulls Henry into a tight hug. “Sorry I'm late,” she murmurs, “our computer system broke down,” and Henry just shrugs and lets her keep her arms around him as long as she wants to because Dr. Hopper says that's a good thing (and really, he doesn't mind the hugging so much these days). “Did you have a good day at school?” she asks when she finally lets him go.

 

“It was alright,” he replies, avoiding any details because his mom's intense dislike of Miss Blanchard is one of the few sources of unease in her relationship with Emma. “I’ll tell you at bedtime.”

 

Mom gives him a knowing smirk and remarks, “And what's this delicious smell?”

 

“Well, you know, you were running late, so I thought I'd whip up some chili,” Emma mumbles, staring down at her feet as she shifts her weight from side to side. Henry rolls his eyes, wondering why this conversation is even necessary when they've been texting each other all afternoon and it's not like Mom can't smell the chili.

 

He considers complaining about their incredibly lame attempt at flirting, but then Emma offers Mom a spoonful and Mom deems it perfect and rocks up onto her toes to kiss Emma's cheek, and it feels so much like _family_ that he forgets about everything else.

 

 

***

 

 

Henry checks the Captain America alarm clock on his bedside table — a birthday gift from Emma that he assumes Mom told her to buy — and furrows his brow. Mom hasn’t tried to enforce “bedtime” for a few years, but she always comes to tuck him in by 8:45. It’s one of their rituals. When Mamá died, Mom started clinging to rituals like they were some kind of lifeline. She’s loosened up a bit since Marisol Mendez (and then Emma Swan) came into her life, but it’s not like her to be half an hour late.

 

He hops out of bed and tiptoes down the stairs, more out of habit than an actual desire to sneak around. The door to the study is closed, which doesn’t surprise him. Apart from the time she spends reading to Henry and cooking, it’s basically the only room in the house she uses. Not coincidentally, it’s also the only room in the house that has none of Mamá’s stuff in it. He leans in to listen at the door, expecting to hear either the clack of computer keys or the scratch of pen on paper. (He can’t deny that he still thinks this whole fanfiction thing is a little weird, but at least it’s weird in a fun way.)

 

He hears neither; instead, he hears the sound of poorly muffled sobs, and his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. He’d thought they were past this.

 

There's no response when he knocks on the door, as expected, but he decides it's worth a shot. Drawing in a deep breath, he jiggles the handle and is shocked to find that it's open. “Mom?” he calls, cautiously poking his head in. She's at her desk, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders heaving. She doesn't respond, so he shouts a little louder. “Mom!”

 

“Henry?” her head jerks up and she gapes at him, mortified, trying frantically to wipe the tear tracks from her cheeks. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to bed.”

 

“I—I was,” he stammers, backing away. “I didn't mean—I’m sorry for barging in, but the door was unlocked, and I... I'm sorry, Mom.”

 

Her face immediately softening, she beckons him to join her. “It's fine, my little prince,”” she coos, “you're always welcome in here.”

 

Her frequent use of the door lock suggests otherwise, but Henry's not about to start an argument. “I heard you crying. Are you okay? Did something happen?”

 

Though her lips are still trembling, she offers him an almost sheepish smile and replies, “Not in real life, anyway.”

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

“What fic are you reading?” he asks, curious. “Did Emma update yet?”

 

“No, she's still at work, and... well, actually, I was writing.” She checks her watch and frowns. “I’m so sorry I lost track of time.”

 

“‘Shadowed Heart?’” She still hasn't given him an answer on whether he can read it. He's starting to think she's just pretending he never asked.

 

She nods. “Last chapter.”

 

Well, that makes no sense. “Is it not a happy ending?” he guesses, though he doubts that would be the case. As much of a pessimist as his mom claims to be, she's a bigger sucker for happy endings than anyone he's met, especially when it comes to Gin and Sal. There's absolutely no way the fic she's spent months on is going to end in despair.

 

“It's a happy ending,” she says, letting out a long sigh. “It’s hard.”

 

He arches an eyebrow at her, not fully understanding. “Writing is hard?”

 

Mom sighs, pushes herself up slowly up from her desk, walks over to the couch, and motions for him to come sit by her. “Henry,” she says quietly, “I owe you an explanation. This story, the reason I didn't want you to read it…”

 

The tears start to fall again, but Henry wills himself to stay silent, knowing he has to wait her out. “It's difficult to write about someone waking up from a coma," she finally wheezes, "when all you can remember is someone who didn’t.”

 

Henry doesn't cry -- he can't -- but he puts on a good show of biting his lower lip and burying his face in her shoulder, letting her pretend to comfort him until she manages to calm herself down. When her sobs eventually quiet, Henry wriggles out of the embrace and pats her shoulder. “That's the best thing about writing, though, isn't it?” he asks. “You can make your own happy ending, even if it isn't real.”

 

“It is,” she replies with a watery smile. “I guess that means I'd better get to work, then.”

 

“Yeah, people are waiting for the update. Miss Blanchard even said she'd throw us a class party,” Henry jokes.

 

Rolling her eyes, Regina points upwards and orders him, “Find something happy for us to read tonight. I'll be up in five minutes.”

 

 

***

 

 

Henry’s favorite nights are when Emma takes him and Mom out to dinner – well, technically, sometimes it’s Mom who’s “taking them out,” since there’s usually an epic battle for the check, but Emma is the one who chooses the restaurant and whisks (sometimes drags) Mom out of the house. Meanwhile, Mom whines that there’ll probably be a long wait and the restaurant will be too loud and crowded and she can probably cook the same thing at home for less money, but she always has a good time once they’re out.

 

Even if it’s just Shake Shack, Henry always puts on his nice blazer, the one that’s getting a little too short in the arms, combs his hair, and jumps to hold the door for everyone, because Mom can’t bar him from eating dessert if the waitstaff is so charmed that they give it to him for free. Mostly, he just basks in the fact that they’re together, they’re out of the house, and Mom is wearing her real smile instead of the fake one she used for so long.

 

It sometimes occurs to him that he’s a third wheel on Mom and Emma’s dates, not that they’ve ever treated him that way. In fact, the first few times they’d been in public together without books or laptop screens in front of them, they’d both paid more attention to him than to each other, Emma inordinately interested in fourth grade social studies lessons and Mom seemingly unable to tell a single story without his input. Then, once they’d run out of questions to ask him, they usually defaulted to the topic of Marisol Mendez, apparently their only safe shared interest.

 

“Maybe you and Emma could go out on a date by yourselves one night,” he’d suggested on more than one occasion, which invariably sent Mom into a panic, assuming he didn’t want to spend time with Emma anymore and that she’d have to call off the entire relationship, no matter how much he tried to convince her otherwise. Eventually, he stopped bringing it up. It’s not like he minded the attention, and anyway, after a while, they stopped needing him to facilitate every single conversation.

 

In some way or another, though, it always comes back to the books.

 

“Is that part of the reason you related to Marisol?” Emma asks him the night Mom told her the story of his adoption. “Because she’s adopted, too?”

 

“Um...maybe?” Henry replies, caught off-guard; beside him, he hears Mom suck in a sharp breath. “I mean, sort of, I guess, but I couldn’t really relate to her all the time. Like when she was all weird about finding her birth mother. I was glad when she remembered Sal was her actual mom.”

 

Emma chuckles nervously, as if she realizes she’s suddenly made things very awkward. “Probably good that you never felt the urge, right? Means your parents did a good job.”

 

He can almost feel the tension leaving Mom’s shoulders, even if he doesn’t see her. “Yeah,” he agrees, “they did. And it wasn’t like Marisol’s situation at all.”

 

“You mean you didn’t need your birth mom to undo some huge, curse?” Emma jokes.

 

“Right. And I always knew I was adopted. It wasn’t, like, some big surprise one day.”

 

“Would have been hard to keep it a secret once he learned the basics of human biology,” Mom remarks drily, and Henry leans in just close enough that their shoulders touch. “And, of course, it was much more pleasant to have the conversation ourselves than to allow some homophobic asshole off the street to do the honors for us.”

 

“What about you?” Henry asks. Emma’s face pales, and it suddenly feels like all the air has been sucked out of the restaurant. Henry wonders what he did wrong.

 

“What do you mean?” she asks, fidgeting with her napkin ring.

 

“Um...I thought you were adopted, too,” he fumbles. “So I was just wondering if your parents, y’know, told you...”

 

Emma locks eyes with his mom, who gives a one-shouldered shrug and squeezes Henry’s hand. “Actually, kid, I wasn’t adopted,” Emma says slowly, her gaze focused on a random point in the distance. “I—well, I spent my life in the foster system. So I didn’t really have parents.”

 

“Oh,” Henry murmurs. And then he remembers: “Like Gin?”

 

“Yeah, sort of like Gin.” Emma forces a smile. “I don’t think my situation was that bad, though. None of my foster families hurt me, they just... they just didn’t keep me.” She looks down, and continues, “One of them almost did, actually, but then they got pregnant with their own kid, and I guess they only wanted one.”

 

Mom makes another loud gasping noise, and when Henry turns to look at her, her eyes are ablaze with fury. Her grip on Henry’s hand tightens. “But, you know, it’s fine,” Emma says, with a wobbly laugh that indicates it most certainly isn’t fine. “I turned out okay. In the end, I made my own family, so I guess it all worked out.”

 

Unsure of what to say, Henry rests his head on Mom’s shoulder and waits for her to reply. “Chosen families are the best kind,” she agrees, reaching across with the hand that isn’t holding Henry’s to intertwine her fingers with Emma’s, and Henry wonders if she means what he thinks she does.

 

 

***

 

 

“Why did you and Mamá decide to adopt _me?”_ he asks (and then almost immediately regrets it) when Mom comes to tuck him into bed that night.

 

She stops cold, nearly dropping the glass of wine in her hand. “Excuse me?” she demands, her voice nearly an octave higher than normal. Henry cringes. He shouldn't have asked: he should have known she wasn't ready, should have known it would ruin everything. Mom's hands tremble as she sets her wine glass on his desk and carefully lowers herself onto the edge of his bed. “Did someone say something to you?” she asks shakily. “At school, or…”

 

“No, nothing like that!” he reassures her. “It's nothing; I just... I don't know. What Emma said, about that family that sent her back because they were having their own kid, I just thought…”

 

His voice trails off, and Mom nods, apparently mollified by the explanation. “You thought we would have wanted our own kid?” she asks gently. “Henry, you _are_ our own kid.”

 

“Yeah, but…” He inches a bit closer to her and mumbles, “I thought maybe you would have wanted a kid who looked the same as you, you know? Like Sal adopted Marisol and—and you ended up with me instead.”

 

“Henry,” she gasps, leaning over to pull him into her arms, “it wasn't like that at all! We chose you.”

 

Henry groans and wriggles out of her grasp. “I’m not a baby anymore,” he complains. “I know you love me, but I hear people say stuff, and I just meant, like, does it ever bother you that I’m not... you know, Latino?”

 

Her face twitches as she struggles against herself, until she finally admits, “Sometimes.” He nods, figuring that was the case. “When people say those things, I can't deny that it hurts, but Henry, that has nothing to do with _you._ The outside world... well, it is what it is, but we’re a family, and our love for each other is more important than race or DNA or any of those other details.”

 

“I know,” he says quietly. Then, figuring she hasn't run away yet and he might as well try, he asks, “Did you ever think about it, though? Before you had me?”

 

Mom sighs as she scoots herself farther onto the bed, leaning against the backboard beside Henry. “We thought about a lot of things,” she tells him. “Mostly, we thought about how much we wanted a baby. It wasn't easy: not every agency would adopt to same-sex couples, and even if they did, it's a long and expensive process for everyone. There were forms and tests and fees, and by the time they told us they had a child for us, race was the last thing on our minds. And then we got you, and you were ours, and we were yours.” She smiles at the memory, tears glistening in her eyes. “The first time I held you was the happiest moment of my life. You were perfect. You _are_ perfect,” she corrects.

 

Henry leans in and rests his head on her chest, where he can feel her heart beat against him. “You're perfect, too,” he says, tracing his thumb along the back of her hand as it caresses his cheek. It's not often that he lets her get this close, he realizes, a pang of guilt in his stomach. Maybe if he let her snuggle more, she wouldn't have been so sad for so long.

 

Her voice cracks as she whispers, “Oh, Henry,” and he wraps his arms around her waist, basking in her warmth. He can feel her breath catch in her throat, and then she relaxes, resting a damp cheek on the top of his head. She gently draws the outline of a heart on his cheek with the tip of her finger, the way she used to when he was little and more amenable to cuddling, and then she tells him, “In the beginning, we planned to adopt several children. We wanted a big family.” With a much darker expression, she mutters, “Unlike Emma’s supposed parents.”

 

“What happened?” he asks. He doesn't remember her ever mentioning more kids. Obviously, it didn't pan out, unless he has a whole bunch of invisible siblings no one's ever told him about.

 

His mom sighs, nuzzling the top of his head for a moment before replying, “Reality happened. It took years for us to get you, and then once we finally had you, we wanted to enjoy our baby boy without the stress of starting the adoption process all over again.” She pauses, takes a deep breath. He can tell there's something she wants to say, something she can't quite find the words for. He tries to stay as still as he possibly can, worried that if he interrupts, even by breathing too loudly, he'll scare her away. Finally, she says, “Actually, we did start the process again, once you had started school. We got a call the summer before you started second grade. A little girl. Two years old. Her name was Camila. She was beautiful.”

 

He doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't need to. The summer before second grade is when they found Mamá's first tumor.

 

“Did—did they find another family for her?” he stammers, feeling dangerously close to tears. He almost had a sister.

 

He wonders what things would be like with another kid in the family. She'd be five now, probably, or maybe even six. She'd be learning how to read. He would have had someone to share his favorite books with. More than that, he would have had someone to share the hard times with. They could have been there for each other; it might have been easier to handle Mamá's death and Mom’s subsequent depression with a little sister by his side.

 

But then he thinks about a two year old being shuttled back and forth to the hospital for Mamá's chemo, and he thinks about Mom barely having the energy to take care of him, let alone a toddler, and he realizes it would never have worked out.

 

Mom confirms, “They did. She has two wonderful parents who were ecstatic to welcome her into their family, and who, I assume, would never dream of sending her back.”

 

“Do you ever wish…”

 

He stops, unsure how to finish his sentence. He often wonders what his mom wishes, what's on her mind when she's crying in her study, what she regrets. There's so much of her that's still a mystery to him, which is probably the way she wants it to be. Still, it might be nice to have a clue once in a while.

 

“I wish a lot of things, Henry,” she says with a hollow laugh, seeming to understand the question even if he hadn't been able to voice it, "but I've learned over the years that wishes rarely come true. The best you can do is be happy with whatever fate hands you."

 

_“And are you happy?”_ he wants to ask, but he doesn't know if he wants her to answer.

 

As if she can sense his thoughts, Mom holds him a little tighter and whispers, “I’m just forever grateful that fate decided to give me you.”

 


	2. Evolving

After she finishes “The Mendezes,” Emma experiences her longest writing dry-spell since the start of her fanfiction career. At first, she blames it on her ancient, secondhand laptop finally biting the dust. The man on the helpline says that it definitely sounds like the motherboard is shot and that replacing the computer altogether is probably her cheapest option, and after she hangs up, Emma laughs until she cries. She has standing permission to use the computer at Regina’s house, but that’s never going to happen. She wants to hang out with Regina and Henry when she’s over there, not write in the corner by herself.

 

Her next step is to blame it on Regina – not in a bad way, of course, it’s just that instead of writing, she’s spending all of her free time with the Mills family, talking and laughing and cooking and playing board games and even occasionally going on adventures. And when she’s not with them, she’s thinking about them, thinking about this perfectly imperfect arrangement they’ve created and how it’s the closest she’s ever felt to being part of a family. She’s thinking about her and Regina, not about Gin and Sal.

 

And maybe, she finally realizes, that’s the whole root of the issue. She still loves the Marisol Mendez series – she always will – but she no longer _needs_ them. And while she occasionally misses the steady stream of reviews that used to keep her company, having Regina and Henry in her life more than makes up for their absence.

 

Meanwhile, Regina seems to be having the opposite problem. If anything, she’s been more obsessed with her writing than ever, staying up to work on “Shadowed Heart” for hours every night after Emma leaves, but so far, her efforts haven’t resulted in anything she’s deemed publishable.

 

“It’s been over a month,” Mary Margaret grumbles one lazy Friday night while obsessively refreshing AO3.

 

“So? Some fics take six months to update. People have lives.” Emma knows she’s being unnecessarily grouchy; Regina had cancelled their plans for the evening on the grounds of needing to be “productive,” and given that Regina almost never brings work home with her, “productive” can mean only one thing.

 

Actually, Emma isn’t too upset that Regina needs an evening alone with her thoughts, and it surprises her. She might have expected her normal insecurities to manifest themselves at the rejection, but they haven’t. She’s realized over the last few weeks that intermittent isolation, even from the son she so obviously adores, is something of a biological need for Regina, that sometimes Regina’s feelings get so intense she needs to be alone to process them. Emma isn’t offended; it’s just that, well, if it was up to her, they’d be together.

 

Mary Margaret pouts. “She used to update once a week.”

 

“Maybe she got busy,” Emma suggests, trying (and failing) to keep her tone flippant. “Maybe she’s on a trip to Siberia and has no internet. Maybe she’s freaking out about trying to make it the best chapter ever.”

 

She stops there, knowing her final suggestion is a little too close to the truth. The fact is, Regina’s filled an entire notebook with different versions with the chapter, none of which she’s allowed anyone to read. She constantly has ink stains on her hands and dark circles under her eyes, and Emma worries that she’ll make herself sick.

 

“Honestly, don’t be such a perfectionist,” she had urged Regina the last time they spoke. “Gin wakes up from coma, Sal declares her love, ladies kiss, and the crowd goes wild. Easy.”

 

Regina had barely even looked at her. “What if I can’t do it justice?” she’d muttered, wringing her hands. “What if it doesn’t live up to the hype?”

 

“The hype?” Emma had laughed and wrapped her arms around Regina’s waist. “There’s no way you could write something less than amazing. And even if it’s not your best ever, it’ll have _ladies kissing._ This fandom really isn’t that picky.”

 

“I know.” Regina had sighed, her head resting briefly against Emma’s shoulder, and then said, seemingly out of nowhere. “I’ve told you about my wife.”

 

“Um, yes? Kind of?” Emma had hesitated. Regina had told her bits and pieces of the story, and she’d gotten a bit more from Henry: Her name was Daniela. She liked hiking and riding horses. She couldn’t cook very well, but she was excellent at making Regina laugh. She was diagnosed with brain cancer just before Henry started second grade and died only six months later.

 

She doesn’t know much more than that. The most important thing she’s ascertained about Daniela is that Regina doesn’t — can’t? won’t? — talk about her.

 

Regina stared out the window into the darkness, her thumb rubbing against the rim of her wine glass. “I took a creative writing course in college, mostly as a joke,” she’d said with a hollow laugh, and Emma nodded along, pretending she understood where this was headed. “I ended up enjoying it, although I had no idea at the time that -- anyway, my professor had a rule, not that she could enforce it, against using characters as self-inserts. She said that if we couldn’t separate ourselves from the story, we would end up losing perspective on… on what had to be done, I guess.”

 

“That sounds weirdly ominous. What exactly has to be done? It’s going to end in two ladies kissing, right? Give the people what they want,” she’d tried to joke, but Regina hadn’t even cracked a smile.

 

“Of course it is.”

 

“And the self-insert thing is bad because…?”

 

Regina’s voice rattled as she explained, “I didn’t even realize I was doing it. But all those scenes with Sal standing over Gin’s hospital bed… that’s me. And when she’s trying to comfort Marisol even though there’s no hope, that’s… that’s Henry. And when I try to write about Gin waking up from the coma—”

 

“That’s Daniela,” Emma had surmised. “And that’s what you wish had happened, but it didn’t.”

 

“Maybe.” At that, Regina had turned, finally looking Emma in the eye. “And I don’t know how to write it without feeling wrong, like I’m somehow disrespecting her memory.”

 

Perched beside Regina on the edge of the couch, her hands jammed in her pockets, Emma had slowly nodded. “I get it. Sort of. I mean, not the whole death thing, obviously, but I’ve definitely had that experience where something hits just a little too close. I really don’t see how it’s disrespecting her memory, though.”

 

“Because Gin isn’t Daniela!” Regina had practically exploded, causing Emma to jump in alarm. “I’m projecting my own feelings for my wife onto some fictional character that has nothing to do with her!”

 

“But is that a bad thing? Isn’t that part of why the books have helped you and Henry so much? Because you could process all the crap you went through with fictional characters?” Regina was silent, and Emma had tried one final appeal: “Look, I’m not trying to, like, convince you to finish the story for my own sake -- or the fandom’s; I just think you’ll feel better when you do. And I don’t know Daniela, obviously, but I really doubt she’d feel disrespected. She’d probably be happy for you, you know? That you’re giving Gin and Sal a happy ending in her honor.”

 

The response hadn’t been what Emma expected: “Daniela wouldn’t even know who Gin and Sal are.” Then, while Emma racked her brain for something to say that wasn’t a meaningless platitude, Regina had stormed off.

 

Mary Margaret shakes her head and closes the tab. “I’m sure she has other things going on,” she says wearily, “but there’s nothing good to read these days. There was so much new stuff right after _Dark Heart,_ but now it’s like the whole fandom is on a break.”

 

Emma shrugs. She wouldn’t know; she hasn’t been online in almost three weeks. “The same thing happened after the fourth book came out,” she reminds her roommate. There had been a huge influx of new fanworks in the first few weeks while everyone was still in a collective state of mania, and then a sudden lull. “It’ll probably pick back up in another month or so.”

 

“True, and I guess there are a few WIPs I could catch up on,” Mary Margaret says reluctantly. “There’s one that’s apparently getting published.”

 

“Oh, right. I heard about that one.” Emma plops down on the couch to read over Mary Margaret’s shoulder. “Reg—I mean, _some people_ say it’s pretty terrible.”

 

Mary Margaret raises an eyebrow. “Terrible might be a bit of a stretch, but I really hope they have a good editor.” She opens the story and asks, “Who said it was terrible?”

 

“Oh, just Tumblr people,” Emma replies vaguely. She scans the description and almost immediately spots the problem: Regina _loathes_ AUs where Gin raises Marisol. Personally, Emma’s read a few that do it okay, but she usually finds that it throws the characterization way off. 

 

“It’s not the worst fic I’ve ever read,” muses Mary Margaret, “it’s just kind of bland. And frankly, it’s absurd that it has more kudos than something like ‘Shadowed Heart.’”

 

Ah, yes. Regina had mentioned that, too.

 

“Do you follow savetheapples?” Emma asks. “She’s got this, like, five page essay on all the ways that fic is problematic.”

 

That’s the other thing Regina does on the nights she kicks Emma out: catalogue and publicly decry every offensive trope in fandom culture and occasionally pick fights with people who don’t want to change.

 

“Oh, I’ve seen this blog before. She had that whole post about those smut fics that fetishized Sal speaking Spanish.”

 

“That’s the one,” Emma says, still able to recall the exact phrasing: _Spanish words, like English words, are simply words. Why, then, is Sal’s Spanish so much more “sexy” than her English? Time and time again, Gin is suddenly horny because Sal said something as decidedly un-sexy as “Marisol, please clean your room” en español. Why do people think this is acceptable? Not that having her speak Spanish in the bedroom is any better – how many fics have I read where Sal speaks exclusively in English... until she’s having an orgasm? Too many to count. Or perhaps her accent, which she would presumably have all the time, is only mentioned when she’s telling Gin to take her clothes off. Latinas are more than just your sex toys. Learn the stereotypes, white fandom. Educate yourselves, and do better._

 

There had been some backlash; one particular BNF who’d thought herself beyond reproach had taken issue with Regina’s opinion and decided to bombard her with anonymous hate messages for a few hours, but the post had amassed almost a thousand notes and started a serious discussion within the fandom.

 

Thinking that’ll keep her roommate busy for at least a few hours, Emma pulls out her phone and shoots a quick text to Regina: **miss you, hope the writing’s not too hard tonight.**

 

She doesn’t expect a reply until tomorrow – Regina’s alone time generally involves turning her phone off – but she receives one only moments later.

 

**_I miss you, too. This chapter is not going well._ **

**_I might just try to go to sleep. Would you like to come over for brunch tomorrow? Henry recently pointed out that you had never tried my French toast._ **

 

Emma considers asking if that’s a euphemism, but she thinks better of it. **wouldn’t miss it,** she replies.

**get some sleep please!**

 

 

***

 

 

It’s almost eleven when Emma arrives at the Mills house on Saturday morning, but she’s apparently too early for brunch; Regina is still in her bathrobe, huddled in front of her French press with her head bowed like it’s some kind of altar, and Henry is nowhere in sight.

 

Even though she ate five donuts on the way over, Emma’s stomach growls as she leans in for a hug, and Regina rolls her eyes. “Are you hinting at something?” she teases.

 

Emma blushes. “No, of course not.” She hovers awkwardly next to the counter while Regina sips her coffee, bouncing with the same nervous energy that grips her every time she enters this house, as if any second Regina is going to look around and decide that Emma doesn’t fit here. “Kid still sleeping?”

 

“Henry’s in the basement playing that new video game the Zimmers bought him,” Regina answers after a loud yawn. “I heard him go downstairs at seven. Haven’t seen him yet.” Shaking her head, she adds, “I’m worried that he has a bit of an obsessive personality.”

 

“Well, I have no idea where he would have gotten that from,” Emma says sarcastically, and Regina shoots her a feigned glare. “Did you even sleep, or did you just write all night?”

 

Regina ducks her head and says, “I’m starving; let’s make French toast,” her voice just a little too loud to be believable. “Can you grab the cinnamon out of the pantry?”

 

“Way to dodge the question.”

 

“I’ve got some cocoa on the stove,” Regina continues as if she hadn’t heard, gesturing to a pot on the stovetop. “Would you like any?”

 

“Does the Evil Queen love ripping hearts out?” Emma jokes before quickly sobering. “But also, sleep is important.”

 

“Yes, I’m aware of that, but the anonymous messages I keep receiving would indicate that this final chapter is also important.”

 

Emma shakes her head. “I told Mary Margaret to lay off of those,” she mutters.

 

“Not that it matters,” Regina rambles as she ladles cocoa into a mug. “What do I care what random strangers on the Internet think?”

 

“Exactly,” agrees Emma. “Glad you finally got there.” Although, if she’s honest, she hadn’t found Regina’s tone particularly convincing.

 

“I owe far more to the people I care about in real life.” She hands Emma the mug and finally pauses, her gaze resting on Emma as if she just noticed she was there. “Emma, we need to talk.”

 

“Um...okay?”

 

“I’m worried that you might think I’m keeping you at arm’s length,” Regina says solemnly, and Emma nearly spits out her cocoa in shock.

 

“Um, not really,” she mutters. For all of Regina’s fretting about not being ready for a relationship, they’ve been moving at what seems like warp-speed to Emma, especially considering the circumstances. Mary Margaret sometimes jokes that Emma spends more time with Henry than she does. She’s at Regina’s house at least five days a week, Regina texts her about twenty times a day when they’re not together, and perhaps most startling of all, they actually _talk._ About real things. They’re maybe not as open as they could be — Regina clams up whenever anyone mentions Daniela, and there are definitely things Emma’s uncomfortable talking about — but it’s still more of herself than Emma has _ever_ shared with another person.

 

It’s true that Emma always leaves before Regina tucks Henry in. After almost a month, she still hasn’t “slept over” or anything like that, but she hadn’t expected to. Regina has a kid; her life is different from anyone else Emma’s ever dated. Still, if this is Regina’s version of keeping her at arm’s length, she’s almost afraid to know what “rushing into things” looks like.

 

Regina is still staring at her expectantly, evidently having not heard her reply. “I feel like this is... not arm’s length,” Emma says tentatively. “I mean, you said you just wanted to be friends and you didn’t want to rush, so what we’ve been doing is kind of more than I expected,” she clarifies.

 

“I really don’t have many friends,” says Regina. “So, I don’t exactly know what’s normal.” Emma’s about to open her mouth to assure Regina she’s in the same boat, but Regina continues, “But given the feelings we’ve already declared... I think that despite our best intentions, what we have goes slightly beyond friendship.”

 

Emma heaves an internal sigh of relief. “I think I agree with that.” Then, just to clarify, she asks, “So what you’re saying is that we’re dating? We’re putting a label on it?” _Please?_ she thinks. She understands Regina’s discomfort with relationships – and she certainly has hang-ups of her own – but she needs a label. A label means this is real. A label means she’s wanted.

 

“If you agree, then yes, I would say that we’re dating,” Regina agrees, her grave expression changing to a rueful smile.

 

“Great, it’s official!” Emma doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s beaming like an awkward teenager who just got asked to the prom. “Friends-to-lovers trope. Gotta love it. Not that we need to be, you know, ‘lovers’ in _that_ sense,” she adds awkwardly, in case _that_ was the source of Regina’s hesitation. “At least not right away. If you don’t want to.” God, she’s terrible at hiding her eagerness.

 

“I would like to be lovers in that sense,” Regina says in a shockingly matter-of-fact tone. Emma swallows. Hard. “We’re both adults; I see no reason to wait an inordinately long time to have sex. However, as you know, I have a ten-year-old son, and while this is a large house, the walls are fairly thin.”

 

“We don’t need to do it in your house. We could—I mean, if Henry was out for some reason? Or you could come to my place one of these days. I don’t think you’ve even seen my apartment yet.” At the mention of Emma’s apartment, Regina’s cringes.

 

“The apartment that you share with my son’s teacher?” The “whom I hate” is implied.

 

“Good point,” Emma says under her breath. She tries to imagine Mary Margaret’s reaction to Regina Mills entering their home. It’s not pretty. 

 

“I have to admit I’m very hesitant about— knowing how interconnected our lives are, I don’t want to start something and then...well, you know. For Henry’s sake.” Emma groans, but her smile hasn’t faded. She’s noticed that Regina has a tendency to make everything “for Henry” to avoid admitting she’s scared out of her mind. Emma would probably call her out on it, except that she’s such a good mom that it’s probably partially true.

 

“Well, _for Henry’s sake_ , I won’t just get you into bed with me and then leave you,” she jokes. “I wouldn’t want to give your kid crippling abandonment issues.”

 

“Oh, Emma,” Regina murmurs. She’s been weirdly sensitive about this kind of thing ever since Emma told her about her would-be parents, more sensitive than Emma herself. Regina takes a step closer, gently raising her hand to Emma’s cheek.

 

“You’re not going to kiss me because you feel bad for me, are you?” Emma demands, unsure if she’s joking. She’s not fully in control of herself: her chest feels oddly constricted, and Regina’s palm is soft and warm and comforting against her cheek even while the rest of her is having hot flashes. “Not that I’d complain if you did, but it’s really not necessary.”

 

“I don’t want to kiss you because I feel bad for you, you idiot. I want to kiss you because I like you.”

 

“Well, in that case, kiss away,” Emma says, with a husky laugh that doesn’t sound like her at all, and Regina does. It’s just a short kiss, soft and light and reasonably chaste, but it still feels about as close to magic as Emma’s ever experienced.

 

Even when they break apart, Regina stays close, her shallow breath warm on Emma’s skin, until a slam from the basement door shocks them apart. “Ew, get a room,” Henry says lightly. Regina jumps backward, her eyes wild with terror, and Emma holds the counter to keep from bolting. He just smirks at them. “When’s breakfast?”

 

 

***

 

 

As refreshing as it is to have a bit of time to disconnect from fandom drama, Emma finally gives in and uses Regina’s computer. It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon; Regina is out running errands; and Emma is nominally in charge of Henry, although he’s pretty much capable of taking care of himself. “How’s the homework going, kid?” Emma calls out to the kitchen as she browses Tumblr, feeling only slightly hypocritical.

 

Henry appears at the study door a moment later. “I’m done,” he grumbles.

 

“That’s good, isn’t it?” she asks, confused by his bad mood. “Now you can just chill, right?”

 

“No.” He trudges over to the leather couch and plops down so dramatically that Emma almost laughs. Genetically related or not, he truly is a miniature version of his mother. “I still have to write my report.”

 

“Your report?”

 

“The one Miss Blanchard wanted me to give about Marisol and, that stuff…I think she called it literary representation.”

 

Emma raises an eyebrow and thinks of Regina’s blog post on the same topic – the first one she’d ever written. “Kind of an advanced topic for the fourth grade.”

 

“Not really,” Henry says, shrugging. “Most people understand what it is even if they don’t know the name.”

 

“I see.” She supposes fourth graders are getting smarter. 

 

“It’s like when you asked if I related to Marisol because I’m adopted,” he explains. “Representation is when there are characters in books who are like you. Right?”

 

“Right. So, you’re going to write about how Marisol is...like you?”

 

“Well, yeah, but she’s not. Except that we’re both adopted and we both have, you know, two moms. Which I haven’t really seen in a book before – kids with two moms, I mean. Unless it’s a book that’s _just_ about someone having two moms which is really boring.”

 

Emma smirks. “So you think writing a report about how you have two moms would also be really boring?”

 

Sighing, Henry leans back against the couch and says, “Yeah, because there’s so much other stuff that people could write about because it’s a book about _everyone._ So it feels stupid just to write about me.”

 

“I don’t think it sounds ‘stupid,’” Emma counters, wondering if she’s in over her head. She knows very little about writing reports and even less about having serious conversations with ten year olds. Maybe she should call Mary Margaret. “But yeah, you’re right, it’s limiting. But who says your report has to be about just you? Couldn’t you, like, include other perspectives? Maybe interview some people?” Emma watches as Henry’s expression shifts from appalled to curious to weirdly excited in a manner of seconds and wishes she could make a reaction gif out of it, although she’s not sure when she’d ever have occasion to use it.

 

“That’s actually a good idea!” he exclaims and immediately bolts from the room. Emma shakes her head. Kids.

 

No, not kids. Millses. She’ll never understand them.

 

 

***

 

 

Ten minutes and an unproductive search for reading material later, Emma is about to stoop to opening Twitter when Henry bolts back into the room, notebook in hand.

 

“Are you ready?” he demands.

 

Emma blinks at him, perplexed. She occasionally — often, actually — feels a little left behind by Henry, like his mind works at a much faster pace than hers. She wonders what she missed this time. “Ready for what?”

 

Henry drags a chair over to the other side of Regina’s desk and rolls his eyes. “For your interview! For my report — remember?” He heaves an impatient sigh as if to add, “We just talked about this.”

 

“You’re interviewing _me?”_ Emma’s voice squeaks. She’s never been interviewed before; what is he even going to ask her? This definitely wasn’t what she meant. “Why not, like, your classmates?”

 

“Oh, I’ll definitely interview them, too. And my mom, and Miss Blanchard…and everybody. But you get to be first.”

 

“Oookay.” Why does this feel like a trap?

 

“So, are you ready?” He sets his notebook on the desk between them, his pencil poised over the paper. Emma sighs and closes Regina’s laptop, which Henry interprets as her assent. “How old were you when you figured out you were gay—bi—whatever you are?”

 

“Um…I guess ‘queer’ probably works best,” Emma says hesitantly. This isn’t what she expected at all. “And no, it’s not a slur, whatever Miss Blanchard says. She’s straight; she’s not entitled to an opinion, anyway.”

 

Henry giggles. “Yeah, I know that. So how old were you?”

 

“Fourteen, maybe? Fifteen?” She has to rack her brain. There was never really a single moment when she ‘figured out’ she liked girls: she just always did, and then one day she found out there was a name for it. “I mean, I guess I kind of knew before then, but my freshman year of high school was when I actually had a crush on a girl and was, like, aware of it. It’s sort of like… I mean, you can’t be fully conscious of something unless you know what it is. So you’re kind of going along until you see two girls kissing one day and you’re like ‘Oh! That’s what I want.’” Why on earth is she having this discussion with a ten year old boy? With Regina’s son, of all people? “At least, that’s how it was for me,” she finishes, embarrassed.

 

“No, that makes sense.” He jots something down and then asks, “So, high school was when you saw two girls kissing? And you figured out you were queer because you wanted to do that?”

 

Emma cheeks are practically fuchsia as she stares at her hands and mutters, “Not exactly.” She wonders how appropriate it would be to tell Henry about Lily. Probably not at all.

 

“So what happened?”

 

“Um, basically, there was a girl who I met who… well, _she_ was already aware of the fact that girls dating girls was a thing, so she kind of started it, and then I realized, yeah, I like this.”

 

Henry nods, brow furrowed. “But before that, you had never seen two girls kissing or anything like that?”

 

“Not that I remember,” Emma says with a half-hearted shrug. Henry scribbles that in his notebook, shaking his head. “But maybe… I mean, I was a pretty oblivious kid. I kind of knew I was different, but I wasn’t, like, searching for the reason. But then after I started dating Lily, I noticed gay people everywhere because I was trying to notice them, you know?”

 

“So you never saw gay or queer people in a book or movie or TV show when you were a kid? Or, I mean, you never noticed if you did?”

 

“Nope, although looking back, I guess Xena was pretty gay,” Emma chuckles. “Pretty sure _Dark Heart_ was the first book I read — besides, like, lesbian romance novels,” she adds, blushing again, “where the main characters were explicitly queer, if that’s what you’re getting at. Or maybe not explicitly queer, but I mean, actually shown in a relationship. I don’t think there’s any point in having queer characters if they’re just going to be single the whole time. Unless they’re aromantic, I guess.”

 

“Nick’s aro,” Henry notes. There’s a brief pause, and then Henry asks conversationally, “Besides my mom and that girl Lily, how many people have you been in love with?”

 

“What?”

 

Henry groans and starts to repeat in an exaggeratedly slow monotone, “Besides my mom and Lily, how many—”

 

“I understood the question,” Emma interrupts, her cheeks blazing. “I just don’t—what does that have to do with your report?”

 

“Nothing,” Henry says simply. “I just want to know.” Emma just stares at him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” she says with a sigh. She figures she should have anticipated this. Henry’s a curious kid by nature, and she’s dating his mom; his right to grill her about her romantic history is basically sacrosanct. “It’s just kind of a weird concept, you know?”

 

“Being in love?”

 

She’s not sure how to explain it, even to herself. She supposes she could say she’s in love with Regina — as she almost certainly would have said that she was in love with Lily — but even if the fluttery feeling in her stomach is familiar, the experiences couldn’t be any more different. It almost feels wrong to describe them using the same term. “I think love maybe changes,” she says slowly. “Like with different people and circumstances. Being in love at fifteen and being in love at almost thirty… it looks completely different.”

 

“I think I’d have to agree,” Regina chimes in, startling both Emma and Henry and causing the pencil in Henry’s hand to fly halfway across the room. Leaning against the door, she looks mildly amused, and Emma wonders how long she’s been standing there — how much she’d heard. “Even if it’s the same person, love still evolves over time.”

 

“Did you and Mamá evolve?” Henry asks, and Emma holds her breath, certain that the mention of Daniela is going to make Regina shut down. This morning had gone so well, too, she thinks with dismay.

 

But Regina surprises her. “Of course,” she immediately replies. “From the time we met to — well, even now, I think my feelings for her are still evolving, but even just during our time together, our lives changed so much. We changed; we grew up. Of course our feelings changed, too.”

 

“How did they change?” asks Henry, clearly hanging on her every word.

 

Regina shrugs. “How didn’t they? The love you feel for someone on your first date compared to, say, the love you feel watching them hold your child for the first time…I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s still _love,_ of course, but it’s not the same.”

 

“So then your love for Emma is different, too,” Henry surmises, “but it’s still love.”

 

Emma thinks she hears a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the room, and she avoids looking Regina in the eyes. “Um, kid, you’re kind of putting your mom on the spot,” she mutters, in a tone that she hopes is lighthearted but probably isn’t. Her cheeks are burning, and there’s a lump in her throat that feels about the size of a boulder. She’s not sure if her bursting into tears right now would be good for their relationship.

 

“Oh,” Henry says, his eyes darting back and forth between them. Then, without further comment, he drops his notebook and bolts from the room. Emma chances a quick look at Regina, who is staring, bewildered, after her son. She looks like she’s about to vomit.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Emma says, hoping that her voice won’t crack. “Kid’s out of the room. You don’t have to say that you love me or anything ridiculous like that.”

 

Slowly, as if she’s more than slightly dazed, Regina turns to Emma and says, “But actually…I do.”

 

“You do?” Emma repeats. She wonders if she’s imagining things. Maybe she’d blacked out from the stress, and this is some kind of vision. “You do have to say that?”

 

Regina exhales. “Yes,” she whispers, and Emma is thankful that she’s already sitting down, because she’s pretty sure her knees would have given out. Her voice shaking slightly, Regina continues, “When I said I was keeping you at arm’s length before, I meant… I’m not good at this — at _feelings —_ but if we’re going to be in a relationship, then I have to learn how to talk to you. About everything. And that means telling you that—that you’re one of my favorite people in the world, and you make me happier than I thought was even possible, and… yes, I love you.” She forces a laugh, swiping her sleeve across the tears that are now falling freely down her cheeks. “A lot.”

 

Are those tears prickling at the backs of her eyes, Emma wonders, or is she having some kind of allergic reaction? “Um, that’s good,” she says with a tremulous chuckle. “Because I love you. Also a lot.” She wonders if she should stand up so she’s at Regina’s eye-level. “You’re… um, you’re pretty great. I love…you know, just _being_ with you. And Henry—he’s also pretty great. Yeah.” Shuffling awkwardly, she stares at her feet. “Should we, like, hug now?”

 

Regina makes a noise somewhere between a burst of laughter and a sob and nods, holding out her arms in a clumsy position that suggests she’s even more uncomfortable with hugs than Emma herself. Emma goes in for it anyway, enjoying the warmth of Regina’s body pressed against hers and the palpable feeling of being _wanted_ that’s too overwhelming to describe.

 

“That wasn’t as eloquent as the declaration of love I was planning in my head,” Regina mumbles into Emma’s shoulder, still half-laughing, half-crying. 

 

Emma grins and, leaning into Regina’s ear, whispers, “I’m sure you’ll write a better one for the end of ‘Shadowed Heart.’” Regina just growls at her.


	3. Cocoa for Three

“How was your weekend?” Regina asks an unusually haggard Marian, who’s late for perhaps the first time in her career. Usually, Marian is the one looking bright and chipper on Monday morning (without an ounce of caffeine, which Regina finds borderline offensive) while Regina trudges in at 9:02 and heads straight to the coffeemaker for her third cup of the morning. Today, Regina is still walking on air from her weekend with Emma, and Marian looks like she’s about to face-plant on her desk. “Is Roland sick again?”

 

“What? No, Roland’s great,” Marian responds, her smile genuine despite her obvious exhaustion. “Everyone’s great. We went on a big camping trip up in Vermont with a bunch of friends from college.”

 

“And that was fun?” Regina can’t help but wrinkle her nose. It’s not that she doesn’t like the outdoors — she and Dani used to used to love hiking or riding in the woods near their house — but she can’t imagine enjoying Marian’s multi-day wilderness treks with all of her forest ranger friends who don’t seem to know what soap is. Then again, maybe all that fresh air is why Marian is always fit and tan and happy and Regina was once nicknamed “Zombie Queen” by the IT department.

 

Marian’s grin broadens. “Yeah, we had a beautiful sunrise on the mountain, and Roland caught his first trout. I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep, though,” she adds with a sigh. “I bought that book you were talking about — _The Queen and the Saviour?_ — for some campfire reading, and I couldn’t put it down.”

 

“Really? You liked it?” Regina’s never seen Marian as the Young Adult Fantasy type, but she supposes stranger things have happened. (And honestly, who _wouldn’t_ like Marisol Mendez?)

 

Marian nods. “Yeah, it was great. Not my usual sort of thing, obviously, but I’ve heard so many people mention it, I had to see what all the fuss was about. I loved Marisol: she actually kind of reminded me of myself, and then, of course, I got addicted and bought the second and third on ebook as soon as we were back in a place with wifi.”

 

Smiling so wide her cheeks hurt, Regina demands, “So, where are you?”

 

“I finished _The Queen and the Saviour_ on Saturday night and then I stayed up all last night reading the second. Started the third on the train into the city this morning — they’re on the way to Neverland right now.” Marian’s fingers twitch as she glances at her bag, where Regina can see the corner of her Kindle poking out. “How do I stop, Regina?”

 

“You don’t. No one’s ever near the women’s room in the basement, you know, in case you ever have an ‘emergency.’ It’s single stall.” Regina has spent more hours than she’d care to admit that particular bathroom, locked away so that none of her coworkers would hear her, but she hasn’t needed it for almost a month, which kind of amazes her. “Auditing meeting isn’t ‘til eleven. I can cover for you.”

 

“Are you sure?” Marian’s looks wildly back and forth between Regina and her Kindle. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

 

“Go!” Regina laughs. Finally, payback for the dozens of times Marian picked up the slack when Regina was barely functioning at work. “It’ll give us something talk about at lunch.”

 

Marian needs no further urging; she’s out the door before Regina even stops talking. Still smiling, Regina rolls her eyes and powers on Marian’s computer, opening a spreadsheet so if anyone passes by, it’ll look like she just stepped out for a minute.

 

She almost doesn’t need to pretend: Marian returns only an hour later, her face flushed and her eyes shining. The speed-reading techniques she’s always practicing seem to have paid off. “That was so satisfying,” she says. “Best one so far.”

 

“Wait until you get to _Dark Heart,”_ Regina advises her, bubbling with excitement on Marian’s behalf. She has so much to look forward to.

 

“That’s the fifth, right? I have the fourth one, _Little Red,_ downloaded for tonight.” Marian pauses, slumping in her chair as if just noticing her fatigue. “Or maybe I’ll take a night off.”

 

“It’ll still be there tomorrow,” says Regina, “and you might as well take your time. Once you’re done with the fifth book, you’re done. I don’t know when the sixth is supposed to be released. You might go into withdrawal.”

 

Marian groans. “Maybe I’ll have to get into that fanfiction thing you were talking about.” Regina manages to maintain her smile, but it’s definitely forced. It’s bad enough that Henry’s teacher reads her fanfiction -- even if she doesn’t know who wrote it -- but Marian? Someone whose opinion she actually respects? (You respect Emma’s opinion, she tries to remind herself, but Emma read her fic before they knew each other. It’s different.) She wonders if there’s a way to deter Marian without being too obvious.

 

“It’s definitely a lot of fun,” she agrees cautiously, “but you do have to wade through a lot of garbage to get to the decent stories. There are some people who write about Gin dating Captain Hook.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Marian bursts out laughing. “Who? _Why?”_

 

“I guess before the betrayal, some people thought he was… I don’t know -- sexy?” Regina shakes her head. “It’s absurd.”

 

“Yeah, the foreshadowing was pretty unambiguous. And, I mean, personally, I wasn’t too invested in Gin’s romantic life, but Sal’s the only one she even likes. If I was going to have a—What did you call it? A ship?—it would have to be them. By the way, speaking of fanfiction,” Marian continues, “how are things with Emma?”

 

“They’re good.” She’s told Marian bits and pieces about her relationship with Emma — more than she’s told anyone else — but she usually avoids going into detail. It’s not that she isn’t happy for Marian to know that she’s finally doing okay after several years of being as far from okay as a person can get, but there’s still a part of her that wants to keep this thing with Emma a secret, a part that worries the magic might disappear if she speaks about it out loud. But because Marian, by virtue of being the one person who still made an effort when Regina was completely incapable of reciprocating her friendship, probably deserves something, she reluctantly adds, “We’re still spending a lot of time together, and Henry seems glad to have her around.”

 

“What about you?” Marian asks, smirking. “Is Regina glad to have her around?”

 

“Well, I think that goes without saying,” Regina replies. The broad grin that won’t wipe itself from her face says it all for her.

 

***

 

 

“Mom?” Henry says, cautiously poking his head into the study, where Regina has been staring at the same sentence for twenty minutes. Every time she thinks she’s ready to declare the chapter finished, she finds another tiny detail she doesn’t quite like. This time, it’s a potential overuse of the word “kiss.”

 

(”Yes, Regina, we get it: they’re kissing. How many times can you possibly repeat yourself?” she’d grumbled out loud just moments before, but she hadn’t had any luck finding synonyms. Smooching? Canoodling? _“What kind of idiot decided the English language should only have one appropriate word for the thing people do with their lips every day?”_ she wanted to scream at her computer.)

 

She knows she’s overthinking it. She’s overthinking everything. The truth is, she’s terrified to hit the publish button because publishing means letting go; it means this amazing adventure she’d started on a whim, the one that had opened her eyes to her own creativity, the one that had given her access to human interaction without leaving her house, that had brought her Emma… is over.

 

The chapter is ready, but she’s not.

 

“Henry,” she says brightly, grateful for the distraction, “are you ready for bedtime reading already?” She glances at the clock on her computer screen, wondering if she’d lost track of time again, but it’s only eight. “I think Emma’s stopping by at eight-thirty with some pizza, in case you’re hungry again.”

 

Henry snorts. “Of course she is.” Regina listens closely for any hint of annoyance, but it’s all fondness and amusement. He loves Emma; she knows that. But she can’t shake the feeling that this whole beautiful _thing_ could be destroyed in the blink of an eye. “So we have plenty of time for your interview if we start now.”

 

“My interview? Oh, you mean for your project?” She blinks several times, confused, and wonders if she’s been so absorbed in fanfic that her memory is failing. “I thought I already had my interview.”

 

“What? No, you barged in on my interview with Emma. That doesn’t count. I have more questions for you.”

 

_More_ questions? “Oh,” Regina says, taken aback, “I guess we’d better start right away, then.”

 

Henry grins, sets his notebook down on her desk and drags over a chair to sit across from her, the way she’d seen him do with Emma on Saturday. Regina tries to stifle a gulp: it’s strangely intimidating. “Okay, well, I know how old you were when you figured out you were gay because it’s when you met Mamá. You were eighteen, right?”

 

“Right,” Regina replies. She wonders if this interview is going to involve a lot of questions about Daniela, and whether she needs to grab a new box of tissues first.

 

But Henry’s already moving on. “Before you met Mamá, did you know any gay people?”

 

“If they were gay, I didn’t know it. But then again, I was very sheltered. My mother, as you know, wasn’t really a fan of… well, of me being gay. Or anything that didn’t fit her vision of how I should be,” she adds, trying (and failing) to keep the bitterness from her tone.

 

Henry gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder and says, “I don’t think you were sheltered; Emma says she never met any gay people either.”

 

“No, I was definitely sheltered,” she assures him, “from more than just that.” She’s not even sure she can explain to him how cut off she was, even from things like learning about her own heritage. He would never understand, and while part of her is thankful for that (and proud that at the very least, she’s a better parent than her own were), there’s another part that feels incredibly lonely and isolated. “But that has nothing to do with your interview.”

 

“It could,” argues Henry, but Regina shakes her head.

 

“Another time. I thought we were talking about Marisol.”

 

“But I want to know,” he whines. “Mamá always told lots of stories about when she was a kid, but you never tell any. You never even talk about your parents; do you miss them?”

 

Regina sighs: this is even worse than a conversation about Daniela. “What’s there to tell?” she asks, her voice rattling. “My mother, as you know, didn’t want anything to do with me after I came out, and my father… he tried, as well as he could have. He came to visit sometimes; he… he didn’t disown me, but he never did anything to stop her. Not that there was much he could do.” She sighs again, hoping the deep breath will steady her. “He was a good person, or he tried to be. He died just before we adopted you. You were named after him, which I’m sure you knew.”

 

Henry gives a short nod and, finally seeming to get the hint, goes back to his notes. “Okay, so you didn’t know any gay people. What about Latino people? I mean, like, besides yourself,” he clarifies quickly. “And I guess your dad?”

 

Cursing inwardly — it’s as if he’d systematically selected from a list of topics that led to minefields for her (then again, she supposes that’s sort of the point — Regina fidgets with the buttons on her shirt and answers, “Of course I did.” _But don’t ask me if I was ever part of them,_ she adds only in thought. Daniela being her Spanish tutor is a great “meet-cute” story, if you ignore the fact that she never should have had to take a Spanish class in the first place.

 

“What about in books? Or movies and TV?”

 

“I guess there was Maria on ‘Sesame Street,’” she says with a short laugh. “But I only ever watched TV at other people’s houses.”

 

“You were sheltered from _Sesame Street?”_ Henry asks in disbelief. Without waiting for a response, he rolls his eyes and continues, “So, when you started reading the Marisol books to me, were you excited that the the main character was Latina?”

 

“You know I was.”

 

“But you cared about Sal more than Marisol, right?”

 

Regina hums in consideration. “I think ‘care’ is the wrong word,” she says cautiously. “I cared—care—about both characters, but Sal was the one who resonated more with me. I assume that if I had read the books when I was your age, it would have been Marisol.”

 

Scribbling down some notes, Henry says, “So, why Sal?”

 

_Why Sal?_ Regina almost laughs — how can she answer such a question in a way that would be appropriate for a fourth grade report? Or in a way that won’t make her son worry about her mental health?

 

Then again, she supposes that ship has already sailed.

 

“Why Sal?” she repeats quietly, thinking of the multiple Tumblr rants she’s written on the topic and wondering where to start. “Well, if you must know,” she tries to joke, “I’ve often thought about cursing the entire population of our town.”

 

“Mom! Be serious,” whines Henry. “This is important.” Then, he pauses, eyes suddenly wide. “Unless you were being serious. Do you really want to curse everyone?”

 

“Of course not,” she quickly reassures him, “but on a more serious note, I like that Sal is allowed to be angry. Even when she’s trying to be good, I like that the author never shied away from showing her rage… or, you know, her uglier emotions in general. I like that she’s allowed to be real and complicated. Most parent characters in a children’s book don’t get that privilege,” she concludes with a soft chuckle.

 

He writes that down and then asks, “What about your fanfiction?”

 

“Henry, you’re not telling your entire class that I write fanfiction,” Regina says firmly.

 

“Why not? All of my friends already know, anyway.”

 

Regina sputters, her cheeks burning so hot she’s afraid her entire face is magenta. “Because.”

 

“Is it because you don’t want Miss Blanchard to know about ‘Shadowed Heart?’” he giggles.

 

“Yes, that’s certainly part of it.” She can barely suppress the urge to shudder: Henry might find it amusing, but the thought of Miss Blanchard knowing her as “red_honeycrisp” nearly makes Regina gag.

 

Henry shakes his head at her. “You know, if I don’t let it slip, Emma probably will. Or you might say something in front of her by accident. None of us are very good at keeping secrets.”

 

“Henry Mills, if you—”

 

“I won’t say your name! I just want a quote about fanfic and why people write it. Please?” he begs, flashing his best puppy dog eyes.

 

Regina has to look away. “Why don’t you get a quote from Emma?” she grumbles. “She’s written more fic than I have.”

 

“Why don’t you want to help me do well on my project? You’re my mom!”

 

“Henry…”

 

His voice is getting louder and louder. “You keep avoiding all of my questions! Why are you being so weird about this interview? Is it because you hate Miss Blanchard? Because she’s really not that bad.”

 

“Of course not!” Regina exclaims. Then, deflating, she buries her face in her hands and mumbles, “It’s just that this is all very personal.”

 

“It is because of Mamá?”

 

Regina sighs and glances around the room, hoping to find a reason to stall. “It’s because I spent most of my life feeling completely disconnected from the people around me,” she finally admits. “Even when I was younger, I always felt different from everyone else, and then… yes, there was Mamá, but after she died, I kind of lost hope that I’d ever have that kind of connection — _any_ kind of connection, really — with anyone else.” She cuts herself off and searches Henry for a reaction, but his face remains impassive. Perhaps this is far too much to be telling him, but she’s sure it’s not anything he hasn’t already figured out for himself. “And then,” she continues, “we started reading this book, and for the first time… No, not even that. It wasn’t about seeing myself in Sal — maybe at first, but that night, after we finished reading the first book, I…” She pauses, laughing slightly at her own absurdity. “I searched online to see if Gin and Sal were gay, and I came across that fanfiction website, and realized there were literally thousands of other people who related to these characters in the same way, and who’d had similar experiences to mine, and… and it was a community. I’d never really been part of one before.”

 

With a vigorous nod, Henry jots down a word and demands, “So why’d you start writing ‘Shadowed Heart?’”

 

Regina shrugs. “I had an idea. I thought people would enjoy it — they did. Of course, this was before the most recent book came out and Gin and Sal finally…”

 

“Right, so you wanted to write your own version of how they got together?”

 

“Exactly. I wanted — I think you’re the one who said it: I wanted to write my own happy ending.” With a rueful smile, she adds, “And then I got a little too personally invested in it.”

 

Henry smirks. “Have you finished yet?”

 

“Actually, yes,” Regina says proudly. “I was just editing before you came in.”

 

“Can I read it?” When she hesitates, he leaps out of the chair like he’s about to kneel at her feet and beg. “Please? Don’t you think I deserve it for living with you while you wrote it?”

 

“I don’t want to know what that means,” Regina mutters, her cheeks flushing. Still, she has to wonder why she’s more comfortable sharing herself with strangers on the internet than with her own son. Wasn’t that the root of all of their problems in the first place — her inability to be open with him? Through gritted teeth, she says, “But yes, I suppose you can read it.” Her stomach flutters as she passes her laptop to him, and for a second she considers snatching it back.

 

Sitting on her hands, she forces deep breaths in and out to silence the warring voices in her head.

 

_It’s too dark! He’s only ten years old._

 

_It’s no darker than anything he’s already lived through._

 

_Your son doesn’t need to be burdened with your grief any more than he already is._

 

_But this wouldn’t be burdening him — it would be showing him that the possibility of a happy ending._

 

And with that thought, her heart grows lighter. ‘Shadowed Heart’ has a happy ending, and so does their own story — doesn’t it? Deep down, isn’t that why she started writing this overblown angst-fest in the first place? To prove to herself that everything could turn out okay in the end?

 

And it did. Gin and Sal and Marisol are all okay, and as Regina watches with bated breath for Henry’s reaction, she truly believes that she’s okay, too.

 

***

 

 

After Henry is in bed and Emma has left for her late-night shift, Regina returns to her computer, feeling full, both physically and emotionally, but strangely unsettled. The chapter is finished; the most important people in her life have expressed their approval, but she still isn’t sure if she’s ready. _You’ve always had trouble with letting go,_ she reminds herself. Holding onto this chapter for another day isn’t going to improve it, but every time her cursor hovers over the “Publish” button, she feels like she’s about to throw up.

 

She scowls at the new message in her inbox from AO3 user “mmb_snow,” whom she can barely believe is the woman paid to teach reading and writing to her son. Flattering as they are, the repeated “Update soon!” comments have only served to heighten her anxiety about posting a chapter into which she’d poured so much of her own emotional turmoil, and the fact that it’s someone she knows makes it even worse.

 

_I promise I’m not trying to pester you,_ says the message, which Regina reads with Miss Blanchard’s high-pitched whine in her head, _but I just wanted to check in and make sure everything is okay, since you haven’t updated in almost six weeks. I hope that if something is going on, you won’t hesitate to reach out to the fandom for support._ (“You don’t even know that you know me,” Regina growls at the computer screen.) _Anyway, just know that we’re all excited to read chapter 13, whenever you’re ready to publish it!_

 

Regina shakes her head in annoyance. She has half a mind to publicly declare that she’ll delay posting the chapter by a full forty-eight hours each time she receives one of these irritating pleas, but then she glances at her calendar and hatches a far more evil plan.

 

Yes, evil. She supposes that if she’s going to live vicariously through the Evil Queen, she might as well embrace it. She practically cackles as she types: _Thank you for your concern, but my personal life is a) none of your business and b) actually better than it’s been in quite some time. I hope to have the chapter posted by 4 PM, Eastern Standard Time, tomorrow._

 

After sending the message, she leans back in her chair with a self-satisfied smirk. Tomorrow at four, she and Miss Blanchard are scheduled to sit down together for their biannual parent-conference, and while Regina hasn’t fully decided on her strategy, she has several ideas about how to make Henry’s teacher squirm.

 

Fifteen minutes later, she’s pouring herself a tumbler of whiskey for one final edit, and her phone buzzes with a text from Emma: **Regina Mills, ur the actual worst.** Regina imagines Miss Blanchard flitting about her apartment, already ranting to Emma about the poor coincidence of timing, and she chortles.

 

And another, two minutes later: **can u please film this meeting?!**

 

 

***

 

At the sound of Regina’s heels clacking against the linoleum, Henry glances up from his book, looking mildly peeved. He’s slumped on a bench in front of Miss Blanchard’s classroom, his belongings strewn about like he’s been there for a while. “Sorry I’m late,” Regina calls out as she hurries down the hallway. She’d had a bit of trouble figuring out how to clear her browser history after posting to AO3 at work, but the final chapter of ‘Shadowed Heart’ is officially up, and she somehow feels relieved, nervous, and incredibly sad all at the same time. She reaches out to pat Henry’s shoulder in apology, but he leans away.

 

“Mr. Zimmer’s still in there,” he grumbles. “Ava and Nick are at GameStop.”

 

“Good, so I’m not late,” Regina says brightly, setting his backpack on the floor so she can sit beside him. She purposely ignores the latter half of his comment. “And I’m not the only parent who goes over time.”

 

“Well, I’m the only kid who has to come to this,” Henry says sullenly, kicking his heel against the floor.

 

Regina counters, “That means you’re the only kid whose parents and teachers don’t talk about them behind your back. You’re the only kid who gets a say in your own education.”

 

“More like the only kid who has to make sure his mom doesn’t yell at his teacher and get him kicked out of school,” he mutters under his breath.

 

“I’m not going to ‘yell at’ Miss Blanchard,” Regina argues, a sly smile tugging at her lips. She has other plans for the unsuspecting teacher, although she’s starting to wonder if they’re going to fall through: it’s been almost an hour since she posted the chapter, and she still hasn’t received the email notification.

 

Henry arches an eyebrow at her. “Why do you keep checking your phone?”

 

Regina refreshes her email for the fifth time in as many minutes. Still nothing. “I posted the chapter, but I think there’s a problem with AO3’s email notifications.” Growing increasingly anxious by the second, she checks the website — the chapter is up, and there are even a few reviews on it. “Did it go to spam by mistake?”

 

“Oh my god, Mom.” Henry buries his face in his hands, groaning loudly. “Why are you like this?”

 

“Maybe there’s just a lag on the emails,” she muses, mostly to herself. But why now? Oh, and the reviews — should she read them right away? Does she want to read them at all? What if people hated it? Why did she decide to do this, anyway? She’s supposed to be focused on Henry right now. If she wasn’t already in the running for Worst Parent of the Year, this ought to seal the deal.

 

The classroom door, swings open, cutting off her train of thought. “You’re up,” says Mr. Zimmer.

 

Regina glances at Henry, inhaling sharply. “Are you ready?” she grits out through a wave of nausea.

 

He shrugs. “I guess so,” he says reluctantly. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. You know I’m not even supposed to be here.”

 

“One day you’ll be grateful for this,” she tries to tell him, but Henry is already heading into the classroom. Regina follows, greeting Miss Blanchard with a curt nod when their eyes meet. Henry’s teacher offers her a nervous half-smile. She’s sitting at her desk, grade book open in front of her, but her eyes keep darting toward her phone, her fingers twitching.

 

Regina exhales, trying to force her mind back to the present. “Good afternoon, Miss Blanchard,” she says stiffly, setting her phone and purse on the table in front of her as she perches at the edge of the chair across from Miss Blanchard. Henry pulls another chair over from one of the student desks. “Should we keep this short and to-the-point?”

 

Beside Regina, Henry perks up, and although Miss Blanchard is professionally obligated not to say yes, it’s written all over her face. “I don’t have many concerns; Henry is one of the top students in the class in every subject,” she says without even glancing at her grade book. “He had a few issues with fractions earlier in the year, which we discussed then, but he’s worked hard and brought his math grade up to an A. His reading and writing skills are well above grade level, and he’s only had one late assignment all year. Unless you have any questions…”

 

Regina shakes her head. “No, we’ve already discussed most of my issues with the curriculum,” she says, eliciting a soft huff from Mary Margaret. She continues, in spite of herself, “I do have to give you credit, though; Henry has been so much more academically engaged this year. Thank you for making school enjoyable for him.” Both Henry and his teacher stare at her with unconcealed shock; Regina scowls. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

 

“Oh—no, I just… I just couldn’t imagine Henry _not_ being academically engaged,” Miss Blanchard says quickly, recovering herself. “He’s one of the most curious students I’ve ever taught. Unless, of course, third grade just wasn’t challenging enough for him.”

 

Henry shrugs one shoulder and looks down, while Regina merely shoots the teacher a forced half-smile. Third grade had been plenty challenging for Henry, though perhaps not academically. Evidence would suggest that one parent dying and the other turning into a basket case doesn’t help a child’s ability to focus on schoolwork. Regina is trying to think of a way to deflect when her phone suddenly buzzes with an email notification. She knows what it is before she sees it; unfortunately, Henry’s teacher sees it, too, before she can safely hide it away. Regina can barely keep from screeching. This was _not_ the plan; she wanted to laugh at Miss Blanchard’s obsessive fangirling, not reveal her own.

 

“‘Shadowed Heart’ finally updated!” Miss Blanchard squeals, practically bouncing with giddiness before suddenly remembering where she is and clapping a hand over her mouth. “I—um—it’s one of my favorite fanfics. Have you been enjoying it?”

 

Regina pauses and, after a moment of confusion, nearly collapses in relief. Mary Margaret hasn’t figured it out; she can lie her way out of this. “Yes, I have,” she replies, not as smoothly as she might have hoped

 

She tries to think of something to say about the story that doesn’t feel odd or overly revealing, but Miss Blanchard has already moved on. “I wouldn’t have expected that you’d be into fanfic, but I guess it makes sense if you’re dating Emma — I mean, what other interests do you two share?” she rambles, laughing lightly. “Anyway, I can’t wait to read the next chapter. Do you have a favorite part?”

 

_A favorite part?_ Regina freezes. How can she choose a favorite? Can she say “all of it?” She finally answers, “Well, I guess the scene that hit me the hardest was when Sal and Marisol finally made up and Gin—"

 

She stops abruptly, realizing that the scene she’s describing is from the chapter she just posted. She’s foolish enough to hope for a second that Mary Margaret won’t notice, but the teacher is already shaking her head in confusion.

 

“That’s not… are we talking about the same fic?”

 

_“Idiot,”_ she mutters to herself. It’s too late to take it back. “I must have gotten confused: I’ve read so many they sometimes blend together. That’s not from ‘Shadowed Heart.’”

 

“What? No, it definitely is,” Henry interrupts, apparently unaware of Regina’s frantic head-shaking. “It was in Chapter 13.”

 

“Chapter 13 hasn’t—oh my gosh.” Mary Margaret blinks rapidly for a moment and then stares at Regina like she’s just found the missing piece of a puzzle she’s been working on for months. “Hold on—you… you’re not… oh my gosh, this all makes so much sense now.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Regina tries to protest, her voice feeble.

 

“You’re red_honeycrisp!” exclaims Miss Blanchard. “I can’t even—when Emma was saying—wait!” She stares straight at Regina, her eyes dark with suspicion. “Did Emma get to read the chapter already?” Regina tries to laugh, but it doesn’t work as well as she might have hoped, the noise sounding more like a painful grunt. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me — she knows, doesn’t she? She’s known this whole time.”

 

Regina nods, defeated. Though she’s glad, for the sake of her son’s education, that his teacher isn’t as stupid as she looks, she selfishly wishes Miss Blanchard were a little less clever.

 

Still shaking her head in disbelief, Mary Margaret prattles on, “I always thought it was so strange when she pretended not to like ‘Shadowed Heart’ even though she was always writing back and forth with the author—I mean, you. And then you were writing fics for each other and… then there was that time when she asked me about—how did I not see it?”

 

Henry clears his throat and says, “Well, um, after she told us that you were mmb_snow, we were all kind of sworn to secrecy. I mean, my mom’s not the Evil Queen, but you know.” He draws a finger across his neck and whispers, “You don’t want to be the one who blabs her secrets.”

 

Miss Blanchard blushes. “Wait,” she squeaks, “does that mean Henry’s read—”

 

“Of course not,” Regina interrupts, glad to have escaped the line of fire. “Speaking of Henry, I believe the purpose of this conversation was to discuss his academic progress. If you believe he’s able to move on to fifth grade, this conversation can be over.”

 

“Right.” Clearing her throat, Miss Blanchard gives a firm nod and says, “He’s definitely ready. I have zero reservations about promoting him.”

 

“Good. Well, then, Henry, didn’t you say something about GameStop earlier?”

 

“But Miss Blanchard,” Henry wheedles, “didn’t you say that when you meet an author, you should _always_ take the opportunity to ask them about their process?”

 

“Henry, we’re leaving,” snaps Regina. “Miss Blanchard, it’s been an interesting year. I thank you for your dedication to teaching my son… and for sending me all of those obnoxious reminders to update. I really wouldn’t have remembered without your help.”

 

“Well, thank you for…”

 

Regina doesn’t hear the rest of Miss Blanchard’s reply because she’s already stormed out of the classroom. Behind her, she thinks she hears Henry say, “I think you really missed a learning opportunity.”

 

 

***

 

 

“Mary Margaret still won’t shut up about you,” Emma grumbles as she tosses a bag of marshmallows into the shopping cart. “That damn kiss… she literally wants to build a shrine to you. It’s kind of scary.”

 

“Low standards.” Regina shakes her head. “I just hope this situation hasn’t made things difficult for Henry at school.”

 

Henry shrugs. “She hasn’t really talked to me about it since that day.”

 

“Good. The sooner we can put this ‘Shadowed Heart’ debacle behind us, the better,” Regina says with far more conviction than she actually feels. The final chapter has been out for a little over a week, and aside from the one anonymous commenter who thinks that badgering her daily for a sequel is going to accomplish anything, the initial influx of reviews has petered out, and most nights, her inbox is empty. While she doesn’t miss the constant pressure to write, she has to admit that she’d grown accustomed to the stream of messages, and she’s a little lonely without them.

 

“You could start another fic,” Emma suggests, as if she’s reading Regina’s mind. “Try your hand at something a little… I don’t know, less angsty?”

 

Regina snorts.

 

“If you guys are just going to stand around and talk, I’ll go get the milk by myself,” Henry says impatiently, and Regina offers him an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she watches him go. She’ll admit that these “family” trips to the grocery store aren’t very efficient, but she loves them anyway. (And she’s seen evidence that beneath a thick layer of pre-teen stubbornness, Henry loves them, too. It’s sometimes difficult raising a child who’s exactly like her.)

 

She’s about to call after him to get both regular and two percent when a voice behind her exclaims, “Mills family! Fancy seeing you here.” Regina whirls around and finds herself face-to-face with Marian, the last person she’d have expected to run into at a suburban Stop and Shop on a weekend with good weather.

 

“Since when do you shop here?” Regina demands, not even attempting to be polite. “Does Sherwood not have stores?” She didn’t think Marian’s hometown was _that_ much of a backwater, but what else would she be doing here?

 

Marian laughs. “Good morning to you, too.” Turning to Emma, she raises an eyebrow. “And you,” she says, grin broadening, “must be Emma Swan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

Regina gulps, but Emma looks unperturbed. “You must be…Marian?” she guesses. It’s a fairly safe assumption — Regina doesn’t have any other friends — and Marian chortles.

 

“Well, I won’t keep you two,” Marian says, her eyes glinting mischievously, “but we should get together sometime.” Casting a glance at Regina’s cart, she adds, “I hope you enjoy your _cocoa for three.”_

 

As Marian waltzes into the next aisle, Emma turns to Regina, her face ghost-pale and hisses, “How does she know about ‘Cocoa for Three?’”

 

It takes Regina a moment to remember, and when she does, she wishes she could disappear from the store in a puff of smoke. Emma is probably going to kill her. “Um… first of all, at the time, I didn’t exactly think that you and I were going to start dating,” she babbles, “and I had no idea that Marian would read the Marisol Mendez series or—”

 

“Oh my god,” Emma interrupts, groaning. “You told her about charmingduckling83?” Regina braces herself for an explosion, but after a bit of jaw clenching, Emma actually cackles. “Well, she isn’t the first person I’ve met through fandom.”

 

But while Emma seems oddly amused, Regina’s dread increases. It’s only a few clicks from Emma’s AO3 profile to hers, if Marian had the inclination to figure out where to look. The Miss Blanchard situation was bad enough — she doesn’t want to reveal red_honeycrisp to someone she actually respects. Curse Marian and her incredible memory! Should she delete her entire profile? What if it’s too late?

 

“Hey, are you okay?” Emma suddenly asks, snapping out of her fit of laughter to see that Regina hasn’t joined in. “What’s the matter?”

 

“What if she found ‘Shadowed Heart?’” Regina asks quietly. “What if she _reads_ it?”

 

Emma shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re worried about; ‘Shadowed Heart’ isn’t embarrassing. Everyone thinks it’s great except for that one gross blog that’s always recommending therapist-patient AUs. She’ll probably be like, ‘Damn, Regina’s really good at writing.’”

 

“But I know her! I have to see her at work every day!” She wonders how hard it would be to change careers and move out of the country at this stage of her life. Not for the last time, she wishes she could switch lives with a fictional character for a while. What she wouldn’t give for the power to wipe the memories of everyone she knows…

 

“I’m the one who should be embarrassed,” Emma continues, shuddering, although Regina is fairly sure it’s merely a ploy to help her feel better. It’s kind of working. “‘Cocoa For Three’ is the worst thing I’ve ever written, and that’s how she knows me?”

 

“It is not!” Regina protests. “It’s cute.”

 

“Yeah, cute like a little kid wrote it. And that was before I had heard of beta readers — didn’t you notice all of the grammatical mistakes?”

 

“I liked it; it was the first fanfic I ever read.” Regina smiles, though in the back of her mind, she’s still weighing the costs and benefits of deleting her entire online presence. “That’s what started all of this.”

 

“Ew.”

 

“No, really, I had just finished reading _The Queen and the Saviour_ with Henry, and I went to my office to Google whether Gin and Sal were supposed to be queer—”

 

“You would,” Emma interrupts.

 

“—and somehow ‘Cocoa for Three’ came up in the search. That was the first time I’d ever heard of fanfiction. I mean, that was… if I hadn’t found it, who knows where we’d be right now?” Certainly not together — in fact, Regina is almost afraid to consider her what state she’d be in if she hadn’t discovered fandom when she did. To say that Virgin Savior saved her life seems a little drastic, but it isn’t too far from the truth.

 

“Well, I’d still have terrible grammar… and I’d still be writing ‘the blonde’ and ‘the brunette’ all the time,” Emma jokes, “but on the plus side, my roommate wouldn’t hate me.” After a brief pause, her eyes widen and she adds, “And I’d probably still be wasting my time dating someone who never dedicated a fic to me.”

 

Feigning a dramatic shudder, Regina agrees, “That would be tragic. Even more tragic than calling eyes ‘orbs.”

 

“I did that _once!”_

 

“Twice — in the same fic!”

 

“Well, excuse me, Miss ‘Gin’s eyes were the muted slate-blue of the raindrops falling like tears in Sal’s soul.’”

 

Regina stares. “I never wrote that!” she declares, perhaps a little more loudly than she intended. Several heads turn their way. “You must be thinking of your ridiculous roommate.”

 

“Okay, fine, but you did use the word ‘languish’ twice in one chapter.”

 

“Languish is a great word,” Regina mutters. “And luckily, my beta reader mentioned it before I published, so thank you for that.”

 

“Are you two done arguing?” Henry grouses, rolling his eyes as he dumps two bottles of milk in to the cart. “You’re kind of making a scene. Is this going to be like that terrible fic where they throw eggs at each other and then start making out in the grocery store?”

 

Emma bursts out laughing. “Throwing eggs? Making out in the grocery store? I don’t think I’ve read that one.”

 

“I’m pretty sure your friend Ruby wrote it.” Regina cringes at the thought of Henry reading any of Ruby’s writing, which is generally both stylistically terrible and borderline inappropriate. She supposes she should monitor his internet usage, but it’s probably too late for that.

 

“Well, throwing eggs seems like more trouble than it’s worth, but making out in the grocery store… that has possibilities,” Emma says, wiggling her eyebrows.

 

Regina shakes her head and mumbles, “You’re such an idiot.”

 

“Did you just call me an idiot?” Emma groans. “Henry’s right; this entire day is just like a bad fanfic.”

 

Thinking back on the morning — on their entire relationship — Regina has to agree. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to be — art reflecting life? Or is this life reflecting art? Don’t they write all of these stories as a way of living vicariously through someone else’s happy ending? Does this mean that they’ve found one for real? She has to laugh — it’s too early in the morning for the level of mental gymnastics this requires. Finally, she declares, “At least we’re the right ship.”

 

Emma grins. “I’ll raise a mug to that,” she says, and leans in for a kiss.


End file.
